Sepia and Gray
by Tenshi no Nozomi
Summary: WK/SM crossover :: Schu x Usagi :: Some memories simply won't stand to be ignored.


  
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Sepia and Gray

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**By:** Tenshi no Nozomi  
  
**Contact at:** tenshi_no_nozomi@hotmail.com   
  
**Disclaimer:**  
I don't know of anyone who bothers to read these things, but for the sake of keeping my writing 'legal,' I'd like to say that I don't own the characters from WK or SM. On the other hand, this plot is mine don't steal, borrow, copy or in anyway take what you read or see here for your own purpose I will hunt you down.  
  
**Warnings: **  
Angst, some OOC-ness, some spoilers for Weiss Kreuz (Asuka related), dark themes, supernatural themes (psychic powers), some violence, and character death (depending on how the reader takes it). Mentioned child abuse, abandonment, theft, abuse of alcohol and drugs, also references to sex. And the final thing . . . biblical references.  
  
**Pairings:**   
Schu x Usagi  
  
**Author's Blurb:**  
Yes, I'm doing a Schu x Usagi one-shot. Actually . . . it may become part of a series if I choose. Think of it as a prologue to another fic, possibly. I guess we'll have to see how it turns out, huh? Also... when you read, you'll notice a few spots of italics. You may have already guessed, but they're thoughts- they're also surrounded by ' ' just in case the html screws up or something.  
  
I've taken some liberties on Schu-Schu's past, as well. Since they never really say much about his past- besides the fact that he trained in Rosenkruz (sp.?) in Austria-Hungary… One has to gather their own conclusions for him or herself. This is mine.  
  
I would also like to specially thank several people who have encouraged me to write this fic . . . Usa-chan, Purr-chan, Aidenn-chan, and Menz-chan . . . ^^ Thank you all for your support!  
  
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Schuldich wasn't the kind of person to care about the past or to think over it. There were too many things best left unremembered, and it wasn't as though you could change things by mulling over them. He wasn't the sentimental type-- not with his kind of work. It probably would have driven him mad a long time ago otherwise.  
  
However, this memory refused to be quieted. It clamored to be heard, to be remembered. It banged around in his head, wailing for his attention, much like the girl who caused it. Try as he might, it refused to go away, to simply drift back with the rest of his unwanted memories.  
  
In the past, before he'd had little more than a ragtag mind defense, it had been too difficult to make it go away. Every night, he was plagued by it, and every day it lingered at the edges of his mind, whispering in his ears. By the time he finally managed to push it down and away, he'd half lost his mind.  
  
It was only in one of his most drunken states that the memory finally had enough strength to gain the upper hand over his well-trained mind. It was only then that he was forced to remember that smiling face, those blue eyes . . . Blue eyes that he could only recall in shade ever so vaguely, as the memories from so long ago had been repressed to sepia tones.  
  
_'Just how long do you intend to stay with me?'_  
  
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Germany disgusted Schuldich. There was nothing about the place that could be considered good or even bearable, although even he had to admit that his life had some improvements since he'd left home. He'd traded a house with an abusive, hateful father for life in the streets with a big family of homeless kids. Not that he was too close to many of them-- they pretty much thought he was crazy in the same way his father had.  
  
What he hated most about Germany, though, was the color. Or perhaps it was the lack thereof - the damned, oppressive, and bleak grays he saw all around him in the city. Blue skies were shrouded by smog, smoke, and dust, and it seemed everything had somehow managed to subdue itself into a monochrome set. It was like permanent dust had settled over everything, toning down the colors to little more than drab, empty nothingness.  
  
"Schu! Schu, wait for me," she called out to him, almost distantly. "Please, don't leave me behind," she begged, stopping to lean against a fence, panting desperately for breath. She was small for her age, and rather frail looking - that came from malnutrition, of course.   
  
"Pfft. If you want to follow me, you have to learn to keep up with me," the ten-year-old boy retorted to the girl with disdain purely reflected on his face. She was always following him around like a second shadow, and he could never seem to shake her. For some reason she'd got it into her head that he wanted her around.  
  
Her face crumpled, azure eyes threatening to cry. "Pfft, what a baby," he muttered, again walking away from her, resuming his trek . . . though now at a reduced speed. He really shouldn't give her the chance to catch up; she was in the habit of getting in the way. There wasn't a person who could hold back their laughter after seeing him shadowed by such a small girl.  
  
The sound of footsteps falling on cracked concrete signaled to him that she still followed him. "So where are we going today, Schu," she asked him, face looking up at his bright and eager. She always recovered from his insults quickly, letting them roll off of her like rain off a rock. It was annoying, but if he said anything to her, she'd just take that as a good sign.  
  
He only looked away, ignoring her in response. Her happy expression flickered and faded from her face. "Am I . . . Really that much trouble for you," she whispered, obviously trying her best not to cry. She was tough for her age and circumstances; she had to be, to survive on the streets with no parents. There was an unshakable innocence in the child, and some called it a miracle . . . In Schuldich's opinion, however, it just got in the way. If she weren't so dense then she wouldn't keep getting hurt.  
  
Schuldich sighed to himself. The girl was a tag-along, and whinny, and because of her the little money he managed to pickpocket off of people was used up twice as fast. She clung to him constantly, demanding his attention . . . He couldn't remember the last person that had really wanted to be around him, though.   
  
Looking into those azure eyes, though, that regarded him so highly, though . . . He couldn't say what he might have. "Of course not," he muttered, ran his hands through his hair, and kept moving. Perhaps he'd be made fun of again today because of it, but it didn't really matter. It made her happy, and he'd be the one trying to stop her crying - which was like some kind of force to be reckoned with once she started up.  
  
She looked up to him adoringly, as though he were some kind of knight in shining armor - which was almost as far from the truth as things could possibly ever be. Why couldn't she see the truth - that Schuldich was nothing more than a thief and a liar and someone who was willing to do anything to get the voices to stop? She was the one who would drag him to their safe haven after he managed to get enough money to buy a bottle of beer off of the guy on the corner, so she should know.  
  
"Schu," she asked, sounding concerned, "are the voices bothering you again?" Apparently she'd taken his lack of response as a bad sign. It was funny how easily she came to believe things. He could have told her that he was the future king of the world and Usagi would have believed him wholeheartedly. He sighed to himself and shook his head as a negative response.  
  
She stopped in her tracks, but it took him a few minutes to realize that she wasn't following him anymore. He turned around and raised an eyebrow in her direction, fighting off the annoyance he was feeling. "What's your problem?" He almost regretted saying that - she looked so forlorn and unhappy. It was nothing like her - in comparison, the tears he'd nearly jerked from her earlier were nothing but crocodile tears.  
  
"Are you going to leave me," she asked, her small voice being hardly audible over the sounds of people walking around and cars puttering by. So that was it, then. Usagi's mind was relatively quiet for a person - let alone a child - but every once and a while, he would catch a glimpse at her memories . . . or rather, the little bits of them she had left. Her mother, a Japanese woman, had died giving birth to Usagi . . . and her German father had blamed her for his wife's death and abandoned her at age five - about two years ago.  
  
It was really no wonder that she had abandonment issues. Often she got called a 'baby' or a 'wussy' by the other children, but the truth of the matter was that Usagi didn't really want to lose anyone else. She was the quickest to cry when she learned about someone leaving or dying, but the quickest to volunteer her help in any way she could. She was strange, that was for sure.  
  
"Where'd you get that from," he asked, slightly curious. He didn't like to feel attached to anyone - it was a sign of weakness, and he'd learned early on that only the strong survived. She looked absolutely distraught, though, and he felt something close to pity for her.  
  
She looked away, her azure eyes cast at the concrete for a while. She looked up at him again, and for the first time noticed something - Usagi's eyes were a really bright blue . . . the gray colors had never seemed to touch them like it seemed to affect everything else. "I just . . . feel it." She looked inexplicably sad, as though her heart was breaking. Why she would waste that kind of emotion on him, though, he wasn't sure.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," he told her, looking up at the dreary sky. It wasn't like he had anywhere to go, anyhow - he was stuck here, in this gray abysmal country called Germany. If Schuldich had anything left to dream about, though, then it was eventually leaving . . . Where would he go, though? He had no family or friends, only a ragtag gang of homeless children living in the middle of a city barren of anything worthwhile.  
  
"You promise," she asked, blue eyed pleading and perhaps desperate. It looked like she truly wanted to believe, but wasn't able to . . . It was strange, the way she followed him around. Those eager-to-please blue eyes watched his every move like a curious child. In this place, she was the only person he could count to stick to him through and through.   
  
Allies were important in a place like this, where no one else gave a damn about you. His own father had beaten him and then ejected him from the household and his mother had done nothing to stop him. Not that any of that mattered- as far as Schuldich was concerned, there was no such thing as love or care in a world like this. It might be nice, though, just for once to have one person he could rely on.  
  
"And just where," he asked her, grinning just a small bit, "would I go?" Usagi smiled, looking relieved. He wondered just how much it would have hurt her if he actually had said he would leave. In the end, he probably would end up leaving- he wouldn't stay here even for her sake. He just wouldn't mention this to her just yet . . .  
  
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Even then, the world was full of such deceit and hate- maybe that's all there had ever been. He'd certainly never been convinced otherwise. She had been the only decent and truly caring person he'd met in his life, without ulterior motives to suite themselves.  
  
He took another deep drink of his alcohol, not really caring if it was a margarita or scotch or vodka. It didn't really matter, since the end result would probably be the same for his liver. Alcohol was alcohol- in the end, he'd end up so drunk that when Crawford came to find him, he'd be so far gone that he wouldn't worry about the precog or his past. Bottoms up it was, then.  
  
For a moment, though, he hesitated. Just what would she think of him, to see him wasting his life in a bar? Or even worse, as an assassin? Of course, the girl's logic had been slightly askew . . . she'd always admired him for everything he'd done. Of course . . . just because she adored him didn't mean she'd always approved. In her own way, she'd always managed to make her opinion known without having to even say it  
  
. Emerald eyes momentarily regarded the hullabaloo around him. He couldn't see around him too well anymore, but even though his sight had been impaired, his mind remained functioning. His mind, which was more of a sponge or a floodgate, absorbing the emotions and perceptions of those around. He almost felt like a machine sometimes, a creature meant to record the thoughts of others . . .  
  
When the noise died down, and when his thoughts became his own . . . It was truly something. There was never something quite so blessed as Silence- it was something he still dreamed of. Yes, he had a Gift- but that gift could become a spiteful handicap when it was overwhelmed with the screams from others minds… which was all too often. No mental shield could ever eliminate all of the thoughts broadcast to his mind.  
  
The only times he'd experienced the silence were when he was too drunk to hear. He'd found it out as a child, and had immediately taken steps to get the peace he so desired. The first time he'd ever had true Silence was when he had met Crawford . . . it was why he'd drooled like an underfed dog, enticed by the aroma of meat. It was what had led to everything…   
  
But hunger had been everywhere, in more forms that one could possibly hope to count. In that gray, hopeless city that had been Berlin, in that cold, dirt bomb shelter, there hadn't been a mind somehow depraved of something. He couldn't count the things that were lacking, but if it was only physical hunger a child was suffering from, then they were damned lucky.  
  
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In the stillness, in the total darkness, Schuldich remained awake, unable to sleep. The unnatural darkness stirred something inside him- he didn't like it. The occasional cough or sniffle or incoherent murmur might break the silence, but they always passed back into the quiet. Their minds seemed subdued enough- they had taken on more abstract elements - but they still remained, like quiet echoes rebounding off of cavern walls.  
  
He got tired of it often, and he wished they would all go away. He had, albeit briefly, thought of living out somewhere alone as a child where the ever -present thoughts of others could not haunt him . . . but no one could leave Berlin. They were too busy trying to survive in the present, anyhow, to have the luxury of planning for the future.  
  
There was a slowly swelling noise that only he could hear, and Schuldich recognized it well. It was the hunger that plagued them all, both physical and . . . deeper. He could feel the thoughts of some young child, briefly stirring from a dreamless sleep to register the painful sensation of her contracting stomach. Another one was lying awake, remembering what it had been like to have a mother and father who actually loved you. Yet another was having some kind of nightmare that played more like a memory, of rejection from the beginning . . .  
  
All of them, hungry for something, just as hungry and empty as the next. And only him, full - but instead of the pleasantries, the sorrows and their distant memories. Their thoughts seemed to join together, becoming super imposed on their common ground. Although a chaotic den of thoughts all thinking different things was a painful experience, there was nothing like a unified desire to hurt him.   
  
In a flash, the headache built, like a brush fire breaking out over a land in drought season. His skin became clammy and he broke out into a cold sweat, although his covers felt hot to him. His breathing became irregular, and his pulse escalated . . . He kicked at the thin, scratchy covers, fighting to get free, aware of the bile rising in his throat and the agony searing in his head like a stray lightning bolt gone wild. Struggle as he might, unless he learned how to actually jump out of his skin, he would be afflicted all the same . . .  
  
He'd made it to a sitting position with the agony escalated, like molten fire in his mind, and not for the first time, Schuldich forgot who he was. The presence that was Schuldich faded away, along with the singular 'I' - he was no longer a person, and entity, but rather Hunger. The world around him simply ceased to be, and there was only Hunger.  
  
His back arched wildly, as though he were trying to make his spinal chord form a backward 'c.' It was accompanied by a soft sort of scream, one that was breathless but would have been terrifying if he'd had the needed air for it. He'd forgotten that he had a body, though, so it didn't matter too much to him at the moment- but the pure, roiling emotion was overpowering. It was a river that had swept him away, its powerful current merciless to be fought against.  
  
A sudden touch made it all falter, shocked him so completely that for a moment the feeling stalled. The universe, he remembered, did not simply exist of Hunger. There was more to it than simply a vain desire for what one did not have. "Schu, please come back," a small, frightened voice pleaded.  
  
Yes. There was that too - fear. But the name… that was his name. Him; he was his own person, not simply Hunger. Slowly, it came back to him - his name was Schuldich, he was an orphan, it was night-time… He was surrounded by his 'family.'  
  
Emerald eyes that had been clenched shut slowly opened, though he couldn't see much. There was a vague black on black impression, though, one shade slightly darker than the other . . . and he knew that the person sitting beside him and covering his mouth was Usagi. Slowly, he sagged, panting, unwanted tears streaming out his eyes.  
  
He didn't have to see her to know that she was concerned- it was obvious enough by the way her hands remained on his arm, tensed and ready. Slowly he sank backward, laying back down, body trembling from the strenuous way he'd arched earlier . . . He was tired, and the whole world seemed jaded and worthless.  
  
"Are you alright," she finally asked, voice soft and worried. Why she bothered to worry or to care was beyond him. He'd only once helped her, and only because her crying was annoying - yes, she'd lost her portion of food to the older children, but only because she hadn't asserted herself enough. Quiet, gentle behavior such as hers didn't belong in such a world.  
  
"Yes," he lied, exhaustion sweeping through and leading him to sleep. It wouldn't do good to tell her the truth- Usagi was easily worried over the people and things she cared about. The last time he'd told her when he felt bad she'd called 911 for an ambulance . . . which had been justified, later, when they found out he'd gotten food poisoning from the garbage he'd tried to eat. He'd been hungry, though, and they hadn't found anything else to eat . . . In the end, though, he'd decided that he'd try not to admit things quite so easily. (1)  
  
If he told her the truth now, she'd be frightened. The last thing he needed her to do was wake up the others - they were already suspicious of his strangeness in comparison to the rest. Strength came in numbers, and to be exiled by the group would spell disaster for him.  
  
He'd spent the majority of that night somewhere between a state of sleep and consciousness. He was too far gone into slumber to move much or speak, but not far enough in so as not to register his surroundings. As it was, he'd been aware of the comforting feeling of her hands remaining interlocked in his till the morning. Perhaps the other children might have made fun of them when they woke, but it was not too uncommon for two people in the group to come to rely on one another more than the rest...  
  
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It was the summer that he'd turned sixteen to her scarcely reached thirteen that things had gone awry. On his birthday, the proud younger girl had given him a gift that she'd had to save up a while for. Usagi couldn't pickpocket because she was too slow, and although she didn't mind help at times, she had an odd stubborn streak that showed up if you accidently rubbed her the wrong way. Usagi'd decided that if she couldn't earn money the easier way, then she'd take the harder route.  
  
She'd worked a restaurant washing dishes for a measly sum of money, trapped in a steamy room full of busy, grouchy people. She came home to their 'secret base' every night tired, exhausted, hands wrinkled like prunes and hair looking frizzed, but she always got up again in the morning, proud to wear that food-stained apron. Because of her job, though, they also had chances at better food- so on some nights, they wouldn't have to go dumpster diving, and instead ate left-overs that tasted like food fit for a king to them.  
  
So while Usagi began to grow up, began to learn what it was to be responsible, that left Schuldich to his own devices. He found himself almost lonely without the little blonde brat tagging around after him everywhere, missing the feel of her pulling on his rags-for-clothes. It didn't make sense to him, and he would have brushed it off as nothing, but his headaches began to get constantly worse. More and more nights he found himself trapped in someone else's nightmare, or else losing himself - and although Usagi always managed to pull herself out of her own desperately needed rest, it wasn't enough; he needed more.  
  
He'd known for some time that drugs could be an effective answer. Before he'd only used alcohol and the occasional cigarette, but now that he was constantly plagued by the pain, he saw no other alternative but to turn to other drugs. From there on out, it had been a downward spiral - he'd use all of his money he made pickpocketing to pay for the drugs that would bring him his desired silence, and would then be half-carried home by the exhausted Usagi. If he'd been paying attention, he might have realized that Usagi's health was failing her. . . But instead he'd wasted his time getting high.  
  
Releasing another plume of smoke, Schuldich reached up and slowly took his trademark yellow bandana out of his hair. Red-orange hair instantly slipped down into his face, hiding his eyes from view. It was old, now, and the once-bright yellow was faded with age and use, but he kept this with him . . . why did he keep it with him? To be sentimental was to leave yourself open for attack... but there was no possible way that anyone could hurt him in that way anymore; Tsukino Usagi was all but a memory, forgotten to all but him . . .   
  
She was his ghost, his counterpart, the one that haunted him . . . She probably would have laughed at him for thinking about that; Usagi had simply been too good of a person to do something like that. He would deserve it, though, if she chose to. If this was his punishment, this eternal hell on Earth, then he deserved it, and in every possible way. It was his guilt, his shame, and the reason he truly believed himself damned. He wasn't certain if he cared about any of those things, at least not normally - he was too busy dealing with the problems of 'now' flying at his face.   
  
Things weren't always quite so hectic, though, and he could pretend that nothing got to him . . . but there was only so much pretending that any one person could do. Even Fujimiya Aya was prone to moments of breaking. It was hard to balance between remembering his past and not regretting it - the scales were easily tipped in regret's favor too often.  
  
He could, of course, find another way to distance himself from the past. He could throw away his birthday gift - that faded fellow bandana that had once been as golden as her hair - and begin to truly forget. There was something that kept him holding onto it, though, and holding onto that last scrap of her. To forget her would be to take the easy way out, and she would have been disappointed in him.  
  
He could remember the first time he'd met her, the last time he'd seen her, and all the times in between. They were shadowy remnants now, but they lingered like smoke on the horizon. He could feel the magnetic pull of memories, like the pull of the moon on the ocean waves. He had no choice but to go through this last set of memories just in the same way the ocean had no choice but to rise with the tide and then go back out again. The sooner he listened, the sooner he would have his peace.  
  
**

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Schuldich was in a delirious state of euphoria that evening, feeling good enough to skip down the street. It would have been a normal night in which he got drunk or high and if he hadn't met that man. He's said he was an American - Brad Crawford was what he'd called himself. He'd told Schuldich that he had talent, had abilities that would be useful. Said that there were people who wanted to train him, people outside of Germany.  
  
It was like a dream come true, if he'd believed in dreams. To leave Germany, once and for all. To leave the gray world to step out into a completely new one . . . To be more than simply Schuldich, a boy living on the streets and using all of his money to pay for relief from pain. He might have turned the offer down, though, if it weren't for the sample he'd been given. Schuldich didn't know what else to call it other than . . . . Silence.  
  
The man had somehow made the whole world existing inside of his mind go quiet, aside from his own thoughts. There had only been his thoughts, no one else - no more screaming, no more crying, no more whispering voices to keep him up late at night. Crawford knew the Silence, had the Silence all for his very own - they'd taught him that. Schuldich wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything else.  
  
It should have been wonderful. The night in Germany - his last night in Berlin- should have been glorious. Instead . . . it was tainted shortly after arriving 'home.' Going inside those heavy metal doors of the abandoned bomb shelter, Schuldich knew there was something wrong by the way it seemed everyone was clustered in one single group in the middle of the floor. Voices had dropped down to low hushes, but in their minds . . . they were screaming, and their fear was almost tangible enough to touch.  
  
They seemed part for him almost as a group, as though there was something important for him to see. Schuldich didn't really know what could matter so much that they'd think he'd care. They'd all been aware to the fact that he'd been drifting away. Still, his stomach clenched with a feeling of dread as the last few people parted.  
  
As soon as his mind registered what he was seeing, Schuldich realized that he'd been wrong. There was one thing, one person, worth caring for or worrying about. That one person was sprawled out in a pile dirty towels and laundry . . . and a small but growing puddle of her own blood.  
  
Usagi looked as a pale as a ghost or clouds, skin gone milky white . . . or perhaps bone white. Her body trembled visibly, shaking as though she were frightened. It took him a moment, but he realized that she was crying. Tears leaked out of tightly-closed eyelids, facial features clenched into an expression of pain. Strips of torn and dirty cloth had been tied as a makeshift bandage.   
  
He knelt down slowly, feeling like he was going to be sick. He had promised himself a long time ago that if he left, he'd find some way to take her away with him. Usagi was too weak to live in this world as it was, and without him, she'd surely be killed by one of the more violent children. It was, after all, the law of the jungle that only the strong should survive.  
  
It wasn't that Usagi wasn't strong - because she really and truly was. She wouldn't have survived six years on the streets of cold, friendless Berlin if she didn't have the strength to survive. If you had no will to survive, then you simply became another lost soul. Usagi had that strength and will . . . but her body was too weak from malnutrition and the constant condition of half-starvation.   
  
He distantly realized that the other children had backed away for the moment, giving them time 'alone.' It was also, though, their time to plan. Hospitals cost money - money they didn't have - but they always protected their own. It was the rule of family, of pack- no one was left behind or forgotten. (2)  
  
He took her small, limp hand in his own, and winced at how clammy it felt. How long had she been sitting in this cold underground place laying in her own blood? A rising force of sudden fury bubbled and threatened to consume him. This girl would have taken care of any one of them, no matter how they might treat her - couldn't they show her the same courtesy and take her to a hospital?  
  
Blue eyes slowly opened, meeting his emerald ones. She looked dazed, like a victim in shock. A few more tears slid out of her eyes, and she opened her mouth to talk . . . but all that came out were dry croaks. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in her mind - she was afraid. Afraid of dying, of being alone, of the pain. She was confused and she was hurting, and noone had been there to ease the pain. She was depending on him for strength.   
  
With a sudden lurch of his stomach, Schuldich realized that she was depending on a sell-out. A creature who didn't deserve to be called a boy or a man, or even an orphan. He was going to abandon his family and her for his own selfish interests. He looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes that would see right through him. Apparently, she didn't need to see his face to know the truth - her hand tightened around his, squeezing with surprising strength for a dying girl.  
  
His eyes darted hesitantly back to hers, and he couldn't describe the feeling that ran through him then. To see her smiling sadly, trying to ignore the pain and fear to comfort him again . . . Didn't she know when to quit, when to care about herself? "You'll be alright," he mumbled. It was not the first lie he'd ever told her, but the first lie he'd ever told a dying person.  
  
Her smile quavered on her face, threatening to give way to tears and sobs. He wondered if she were to start crying if he'd be able to leave. Over bright eyes blinked a few times, and the few scraps of composure that remained came together. "Ah . . . you think so?" She knew he was lying- knew it well . . . but she was playing this game with him. Why?  
  
"I'll go get help, okay?" Schuldich told her, gently ruffling her hair. "And we'll get you to the hospital and you'll be just fine." Schuldich wondered if this was what it felt like to be Judas. To lie, and lie, and lie . . . or perhaps Peter, who denied his Lord three times before the cock crowed. Did that mean he'd lie to her one last time before he left? Or would leaving be the third transgression? (3)  
  
She knew, somehow she knew. She knew he'd be leaving her, knew he was lying, had known it all along. Maybe since they'd met she'd known he would abandon her too, and had been drawn to him anyway. There were too many possibilities, but no answers . . . The look on her face, however, was enough to still his heartbeat for a moment.   
  
"I'll be back," he told her, hating himself right then for lying to her. She nodded at him, looking ready to burst into tears. She was going to die, and she knew it- he was leaving her, and she knew that, too. She was lying, though, for his sake . . . He could hear her thoughts now; her composure had slipped too far to hold onto everything . . .   
  
_'. . . Really love you, Schu. I'll miss you . . . I don't want to die . . . Just please don't forget me . . .'_ Her thoughts weren't clear or entirely coherent - she was in pain, in agony from the wound. She'd been heading back, intent to get back and get a good night's sleep when she'd been attacked. Or rather, shot at. She'd never seen the stranger clearly - it was dark, and she'd walked just outside of the streetlight's illumination. There had only been a dark, looming shadow standing over her like death itself.  
  
She'd passed out briefly from shock, and awoken a few minutes later when a dog finally managed to steal the last of the bread she'd bought for the week. She'd then proceeded to crawl back home, trying to get to safety and perhaps help, but hadn't made it the whole way. She'd watched the sun start to set from stoop, but had been picked up and brought back by one of the older leaders.   
  
Her thoughts then muted- there wasn't anything left to say. She was so young, too young, but life was cruel and hard and it took everything away from you that ever mattered. Usagi herself knew that, and still she was sheltering him from her pained and painful thoughts. If he'd been there, he might have saved her. It was a bitter thought that had echoed across her mind moments before her thoughts had muted, but it had only been slightly sour . . . A muted, sorrow wish, a vain hope that could never be. She knew this.  
  
He ruffled her hair again, unable to say another word. It felt as though if he spoke another lie, it would be his complete undoing . . . Crawford was leaving that night, leaving for Austria by means that wouldn't come again. If he missed his chance, he'd never get out of here . . . It was horrible, feeling like a bird trapped in a cage, given the gift of flight and to never get to use it.  
  
She was slipping off now, though to sleep or death he wasn't sure. He'd never experienced death up close, so he'd never known for sure if there was a difference. He could feel her weariness, though. She'd come as far as she could, and she was tired. She didn't want to fight anymore, but at the same time . . . she didn't want to go off; didn't want to be alone. Mostly, though, he could feel that she wanted him.  
  
_'Go,_' her thoughts whispered to him. It wasn't necessarily a dismissal so much as it was to free him. Her smile looked pained, but she was sacrificing her comfort for his. As he drew away from her, silent as death departing from a corpse, he could feel the others' hateful eyes on him. They hated that he was leaving, that for some reason he was going to get out and not them. They hated that he'd abandon the only person that had ever cared about him and at once that he was leaving her as their own burden.  
  
He didn't blame them, though. He hated himself, too - for being a selfish coward. But he hated her, too - her for letting him go, for not fighting harder to keep him here. For being too stubborn to give over her money and just let it go, even though inside he knew she used it to pay off some of his extra debts he worked up with the drugs. Most of all, though, he hated her for giving him a way out.  
  
He thought, though, as he ran up the cold stone stairs and into the thick, black night . . . that he loved her, too.  
  
**

**

**  
  
The memories slipped back to where they belonged, back into the deepest recesses of his mind. What had been the purpose of remembering, of suffering through the nightmare that had been his childhood? She wanted to be remembered, he knew that. That was why he kept her bandana, as a keepsake of her . . . That was the only thing she'd ever really asked for that counted for anything - that he remember her.  
  
Who, though, could forget someone like her? She was the only child that could smile no matter how many times she was beaten down, rising like a flickering flame to sputter back to life. She fought harder than anyone else, tried harder than anyone else. It was her inner strength that gave her that beauty, combined with that sense of innocence that survived hell. She was an angel forgotten by God, left to wander the earth with only one wing . . .  
  
She'd always seemed to know too much, or to guess things far ahead of time. It could have been simple intuition . . . most people were psychics of a sort on some small scale. Crawford had once told him, though, that psychics were drawn to one another like magnets. So perhaps that was what she'd been - another psychic simply trying to make her way through the world. She'd never said . . . but she'd always been so concerned about him. So who could say at this point in time?  
  
He leaned back in his chair, looking up through the smoky wisps of air. Usagi was no ghost - she was not haunting him in any way. She'd never been reincarnated, as far as he knew - he'd never met her again, like Yohji had met Asuka turned Neu. Her image stayed though, branded into his brain and behind his eyes. She had been his everything, and he'd never known.  
  
He'd been in for a rude awakening when he'd gotten to Rosenkruz. It was hardly the paradise that it had sounded to be. And the 'man' that was Crawford was hardly more than a boy who looked and acted almost twice his age. Hardly older than he was. Rosenkruz had been like another level of hell, differing from Berlin but not being truly any better.  
  
That first year - without his drugs and alcohol to shield him from the voices - he'd nearly lost his mind. He'd spent almost three months trapped in the states of Loneliness and Fear, without Usagi to wake him up and comfort him. Those self-called scientists only watched and recorded all that time, never lifting a finger to help him. It had made him stronger in the end, but he'd suffered dearly for it.  
  
He'd been so lucky to have Usagi even for that short time. After leaving her, no one had cared for him again. She'd loved him more than everyone that he'd ever met in his life combined had. To call her his soul-mate wouldn't have done her justice. She was his soul-mate - if such a word was not over-used and tainted by common use -, his private angel, and his fierce friend. She'd been everything for him at once, and he'd never taken the time to appreciate it or thank her for it.  
  
That had been the last he'd seen of her, but he'd heard from her for sometime afterwards. It had been as he'd feared - they had failed to take her to a doctor and she the bullet wounds had become infected. It had been in her fever-induced deliriums that she had called for him, sometimes inducing his own nightmares on the way to Austria. It had been the most pitiful and heart-wrenching thing he'd ever had to endure, and in the end he'd begged Crawford to give him the Silence. When it was removed, she no longer called to him.  
  
Schuldich had always wondered what bastard had murdered her and for what purpose. Of course, something tried to point out to him that he was as much of a murderer as the person who'd actually fired the bullet. If only . . . if only Usagi hadn't been shot. Perhaps, if she hadn't, he might have stayed in Germany. It might have been worth giving up freedom for it. To be and live with someone that really cared about you . . . He wondered what such a thing would feel like.  
  
He didn't have that luxury, though. Usagi had been dead and gone for five years. It did him no good to draw blood from an old wound. He'd hid it for so long, beneath his sarcastic remarks, smug attitude, and hateful tactics. Maybe there hadn't ever been anything besides the Schuldich that he was now.  
  
He retied his bandana, half-enjoying the familiar feel of it against his skin and lifting up the roots of his hair. His name fit him well - one day there would be nothing left for him but guilt. For now, though, it was time to keep moving. Always moving on forward - because no one could try to move back again. Never resting, simply being pulled by the river of time, waiting.   
  
What for? Perhaps he was waiting for death to come. Maybe he was waiting for the day he'd see her again, a young girl or woman to his old age. It could have been he was waiting for himself to change . . . though how could he change what he wasn't sure about? Grinning a small, half-grin, Schuldich made his way out to the streets.  
  
If he'd known as a boy that all of the streets in the world were gray, maybe he'd have never left Berlin. If he'd known the only real love he'd find - rather than cheap desire or lust - was Usagi's, he certainly never would have left her behind. She'd been his crutch and strength for too long, given him too much. And what did he, a person who killed for a living, have to say to an angel?  
  
That he remembered her. That he'd never forgotten her. That though she'd faded to sepia tones, and there was nothing left in this gray world for him, he kept on trying, kept on struggling. For what? To reach her? To pay her back? To make her sacrifice worth something? Was it possible that there really was some thing in him still able to love, some piece of untainted self that he'd been unaware of?  
  
Perhaps all . . . perhaps none. It would be a lie to say he didn't want to see her again, that he didn't miss her. He missed her like she was the part of him, something big and important. Things like that, though, were better left unsaid. The aforementioned questions were also best left unanswered. He'd wait another day to find the answers to those questions- it wasn't in an assassin's best interest to become sentimental or philosophical.   
  
Everyone's time runs out, though . . . sooner or later.  
  
**

****

**  
  
(1) – Kay . . . here in the US, the emergency number is 911... A friend told me that in Japan, it's 119. ( Can anyone validate this?) So... does anyone know if the number in Germany is different? ?.?  
  
(2) – I'm sure that anyone who's seen Disney's Lilo and Stitch would recognize that last piece. ^^  
  
(3) – For the record, I'm not exactly Christian, although themes related to the church keep popping up in my stories . . . I don't know if this is simply because I've been raised in that church and know a fair amount about it and can relate it to what I write, or what . . . In any case, hope no one was offended by the reference. ^^;;  
  
Okay . . . so, now (hopefully) you've read this . . . I hope you enjoyed it, because I enjoyed writing it. Sequel is still questionable, but I'm leaning towards going ahead and doing it. (Though I really should work on other things first... and probably will do so.) Anyhow - please, feel free to click that 'review' button you see at the bottom of the screen, or send me an email. Comments, questions, criticism (constructive prefered). No flames, please, or face the concequences.  
  



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